


Negative

by tastewithouttalent



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Friendship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Pre-Slash, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14534943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Jean lifts a hand slowly to his mouth to catch his fingers against the crinkling paper of the cigarette braced at his lips so he can draw it free to blink consideration at it." Nino is curious about Jean's habit and Jean is willing to share.





	Negative

“Are those really worth the cost?”

Nino watches Jean’s eyes open slowly, watches the gold of his lashes lift over the sky-blue of his eyes. Jean stares at Nino for a moment, gazing up at the other’s face from where he’s lying across the couch next to Nino sitting at the far end; and then he lifts a hand slowly to his mouth to catch his fingers against the crinkling paper of the cigarette braced at his lips so he can draw it free to blink consideration at it.

“I don’t know,” he says, thoughtful, like he’s never truly considered the question.

Nino huffs a laugh that goes gentle against the curve of his smile. “Never thought about it?”

“No.” Jean turns the cigarette, cradling the paper of it against the very tips of his fingers. Nino watches the focus in the other’s blue eyes instead of the cigarette, watches the unthinking flex of tension along Jean’s fingers instead of the ember smouldering at the end of the paper. “I just like how they taste.”

“Like smoke?” Nino suggests.

“Mostly.” Jean brings the cigarette back to his lips to take a deliberate inhale, slow, with his gaze fixed on some far-off point like he’s bringing his whole attention to bear on his present act. When he parts his lips to let the smoke spill free Nino can see the silver of it curl against Jean’s mouth, winding back on itself like it’s unwilling to leave the warmth of the other’s tongue. Jean closes his mouth and blinks slowly, looking thoughtful. “It’s sweet, too.”

Nino hums. “It doesn’t smell very sweet.”

“It is,” Jean says. “Just a little bit.” He tips his head back to look up at Nino, the clear of his gaze landing on the other’s features with the complete lack of self-consciousness that never fails to hold Nino’s attention more thoroughly than something more deliberate would. “Want to try?”

Nino doesn’t care, much. He’s never been personally invested in picking up Jean’s habit; it’s enough pleasure for Nino to see Jean’s satisfaction secondhand. But Jean is making an offer, and Nino has never said no to Jean before, and he’s not about to start now. “Sure.”

Jean’s lashes dip. “Okay,” he says; and then he brings his cigarette back to his lips, before Nino can even shift to reach for it. He takes a slow inhale, long and lingering like he’s relishing the taste of the smoke; and then he draws the cigarette back from his mouth, and tips his chin up, and it’s as Jean’s gaze meets his that Nino realizes what the other intends.

It’s harder to do than it should be. All Nino has to do is lean forward, tip in and down and part his lips; but for the first moment he can’t think for the electricity that rushes through his veins, and for the second he can’t breathe to fill his lungs with air, and by the third he’s aware that he’s staring, that he’s let the moment linger too long, that he must act soon or lose this fragile opportunity. But he’s frozen, locked as still as if he’s trapped in the frame of one of his own photographs, doomed to stare out at the world without ever being able to reach out and take any part of it for himself; and then Jean shifts against the couch, and lifts his hand from his stomach, and reaches out to press his fingers against Nino’s shirtfront. His touch catches at the fabric, his grip slides to drag across the give of the cloth; and then his fingers are curling into a fist against Nino’s shirt, and his arm is flexing to tug against the contact, and Nino is leaning in just like that, his whole body drawn forward and into action again by the gentle pull of Jean’s hold on him. His weight shifts against the couch, his shoulders dip in to cast Jean under him into shadow; and then Jean parts his lips to let a tendril of smoke escape, and Nino mirrors him reflexively, autopilot taking over to catch the offering from Jean’s mouth before he has thought through the action.

The cigarette smoke curls up over the space between them, bridging the gap between Jean’s lips and Nino’s with the same careless grace that brought Jean’s hand out to pull at Nino’s shirt. Nino can watch it reel out into the air, whorls and tendrils of silver spilling from Jean’s lips; and then it touches his own, and Nino has to shut his eyes for a moment as the smoke winds itself against his mouth, as the bitter heat of the taste slides past his lips and over his tongue. There’s a burn to it, a drag and an ache at the back of Nino’s throat, as if it’s an open flame Jean is offering, fire too much for the paper-thin of Nino’s facade to bear. Nino can feel his eyes burning with the bite of the smoke, can feel tears starting against the corners of his lashes; and then he relaxes his throat, and breathes in, and lets the chemicals fill his lungs all at once, as if the smoke is the same liquid Nino himself pours over the darkness of photograph negatives to bring out their unseen images. It’s heat at his lips, electricity down his spine, a fever in his blood; and Nino keeps his eyes shut, keeps himself in the darkness, and breathes in until the last of the smoke has faded from the air, until when he exhales there’s nothing but himself on his lips.

“There,” a voice says, and Nino opens his eyes, slowly, letting illumination fill up his vision and return the world to clarity around him. Jean is still lying across the couch, his lips barely parted and his gaze fixed on Nino’s face; as Nino looks down at him his fingers ease on the other’s shirt, his hand falls to lie across his stomach where it was before. When he blinks Nino can see the gold of his eyelashes catch and glow in the light. “Could you taste the sweet?”

Nino’s mouth is full of the bitter tang of the smoke, his eyes still hot from the burn of it. The back of his throat aches, tingling with the urge to cough, maybe, to flinch away from the rough treatment of the cigarette smoke he’s just breathed in. And before him, under him, inverted as if through an old-fashioned camera lens, Jean’s eyes are very blue, and Jean’s hair is very gold, and Jean’s lips are very red.

Nino nods. “Yes,” he says, and tastes the sound of the word against his tongue like the slur of expensive chocolate melting at his lips. “You’re right. It’s very sweet.”


End file.
